Star Wars TALES FROM JABBA'S PALACE
by
Kevin J. Anderson
TALES FROM JABBA'S PALACE
BANTAM New York Toronto London Sydney Auckland
To SUE ROSTONI who has been more helpful than any of Jabba's minions
could have ever been, offering suggestions, troubleshooting obstacles,
and navigating me through a forest of details that would have given even
a Hutt a headache!
Acknowledgements
Thanks go to Lucy Wilson for being so enthusiastic about the idea of
anthologies in the first place, Tom Dupree for his efforts at Bantam
Books, and Bill Smith at West End Games for providing the foundations
for so, many of these stories. And, as always, Rebecca Moesta Anderson,
for putting up with me at times when she probably should have just fed
me to the rancor.
October 1994
Contents
Introduction
A Boy and His Monster:
The Rancor Keeper's Tale
Kevin J. Anderson
Taster's Choice: The Tale of Jabba's Chef
Barbara Hambly
That's Entertainment:
The Tale of Salacious Crumb
Esther M. Friesner
A Time to Mourn, a Time to Dance:
Oola's Tale
Kathy Tyers
Let Us Prey: The Whiphid's Tale
Marina Fitch and Mark Budz
Sleight of Hand: The Tale of MaraJade
Timothy Zahn
And Then There Were Some:
The Gamorrean Guard's Tale
William F. Wu
Old Friends: Ephant Mon's Tale
Kenneth C. Pint
Goatgrass: The Tale of Ree-Yees
Deborah Wheeler
And the Band Played On: The Band's Tale
John Gregory Betancourt
Of the Day's Annoyances: Bib Fortuna's Tale
M. Shayne Bell
The Great God Quay:
The Tale of Barada and the Weequays
(george ALec Effinger
A Bad Feeling: The Tale of EV-9D9
Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stephens
A Free Quarren in the Palace: Tessek's Tale
Dave Wolverton
Tongue-tied: Bubo's Tale
Daryl F. Mallett
Out of the Closet: The Assassin's Tale
Jennifer Roberson
Shaara and the Sarlacc: The Skiff Guard's Tale
Dan'l Danehy-Oakes
A Barve Like That: The Tale of Boba Fett
J. D. Montgomery
Skin Deep: The Fat Dancer's Tale
A. C. Crispin
Epilogue: Whatever Became Of . . . ?
About the Authors "If I told you half the things I've heard about this
Jabba the Hutt, you'd probably short-circuit!"
Jabba the Hutt has many enemies.
Called a "vile gangster" by some, Jabba's criminally gained wealth and
power has placed him in a dangerous position in his guarded citadel
under the twin suns of Tatooine. Though few openly covet Jabba's
wealth, this does not stop them from plotting in secret.
The Lady Valarian, the female Whiphid owner of the Lucky Despot hotel
and casino, is Jabba's chief rival. Hairy and tusk-faced, with a
voracious appetite (some say literally) for males of her species, she
keeps a low profile, planning in the long term.
Prefect Eugene Talmont, stationed in Mos Eisley is the Imperial in
charge of the Tatooine garrison. He hates his backwater assignment and
hopes that by eliminating Jabba he can find a way out of the arid hole
where he has landed. Then there is the mysterious order of B'omarr
monks, who originally built the enormous citadel for their solitude in
the desert depths. The monks, wrapped in their ethereal concerns, seem
oblivious to the fact that Jabba--and many other bandits in the decades
before him--usurped their stone fortress. But no one can know what the
quiet, uncommunicative monks are really thinking.
Jabba is always on his guard, but little does he suspect that his
greatest nemesis will come in the form of a single Jedi Knight, who
walks in alone from the desert . . .
Note: For the reader's convenience, all alien languages have been
translated into Basic. A Boy and His Monster: The Rancor Keeper's Tale
by Kevin J. Anderson
Special Cargo The unidentified ship tore through the brittle atmosphere
of Tatooine with a finger of fire, trailing greasy black smoke. Waves
of sound, sonic booms from the crashing ship, made an avalanche through
the air.
Below, the Jawa sandcrawler continued its endless path across the Dune
Sea looking for forgotten scraps of abandoned metal, delicious salvage.
By sheer luck the crawler stood only two dunes away when the plummeting
ship struck the ocean of blind sand and spewed a funnel of dust that
glittered like mica chips under the blazing twin suns.
The pilot of the corroded sandcrawler, Tteel Kkak, stared out the narrow
window high up on the bridge deck, unable to believe the incredible
fortune the luck of his ancestors had dropped in his lap.
His crawler's year-long trek across the wastelands had been practically
fruitless, and he would have been ashamed to return to his clan's hidden
fortress beating so little--but now a virgin ship lay within reach,
unclaimed by other scavenging clans and unsullied by time.
The ancient reactor engines shoved the immense sandcrawler into motion.
It ground over the shifting sands seeking purchase with wide treads in a
straight line for the smoldering wreckage.
The ship lay in a crater of loose, blasted sands that might have
cushioned the impact; some of the cargo should still be intact. The
armored chambers and parts of the computer core might be salvageable.
Or so Tteel Kkak hoped.
Jawas swarmed out of the sandcrawler toward the wreckage: the entire
scavenging arm of the Kkak clan, little hooded creatures surrounded by a
rank musty scent, chattering as they claimed their prize.
The front group of Jawas carried chemical fire-suppressant packs, which
they sprayed on the hissing hot metal to minimize further damage.
They did not look to see if anyone had survived the crash, because that
was not their primary concern. In fact, living passengers or crew would
only complicate the Kkak salvage claim. Those injured in such wrecks
rarely survived Jawa first aid.
The Jawas used up two battery packs in the sputtering old laser cutters
to cut their way through the hull into the armored bridge compartment.
Dim light from emergency systems and the still-flickering glow from
internally burning electronics components lit the abandoned stations.
Harsh chemical fumes and curling gray-blue smoke struck Tteel Kkak's
sensitive nostrils--but underneath he could detect an undertone of
metallic fear, the copper smells of blood splashed and burned. He knew
he would find no one alive in the captain's chair.
What he was not prepared for, though, was to find no bodies at all--just
dark, wet arcs of sprayed blood, melted starbursts from blaster fire on
the walls.
The other Jawas opened the main bulkhead doors and flowed in,
chittering. Scout teams poured into the remains of the ship, spraying
down smoldering sections and squirming through collapsed walls to find
other treasures in the cargo hold.
Tteel Kkak directed one of the younger clan members to demonstrate his
prowess by slicing into the main bridge computer to download the
registry number and owner of the vessel, just in case there might be
some large bounty, a reward for simply reporting the whereabouts of the
hulk--after they had stripped it of all valuables, of course.
The young clan member Tteel Kkak's third sister's fifth son by her
primary mate pulled out a scuffed, flatscreen reader with stripped raw
wires dangling from the end. He used his rodentlike claws to peel back
the access plate of the bridge panel and squealed as sparks flew when he
connected the wires. He jammed the leads into other pickups, tapped
into the dying energy in the ship's backup batteries, and called up the
information in flickering green phosphor letters across the screen.
The captain of the ship had been a humanoid named Grizzid, and Tteel
Kkak's fantasies diminished.
He had hoped for some well-known dignitary or VIP passenger.
This Grizzid person had departed from the Tarsunt system, another place
Tteel Kkak had never heard of.
Dismissing that, he directed his young assistant to find more important
information--the cargo manifest.
When new letters scrolled up on the screen, the device flickered, and
his young assistant had to slap it several times before it functioned
again. The flat-screen scrolled up a dismayingly short list of
contents.
Tteel Kkak's thumping heart sank. One item, marked only as "special
cargo," had been placed aboard by a Bothan trader named Grendu, a dealer
in "rare antiquities," who requested that extreme precautions be taken.
A heavily reinforced duranium cage filled most of the ship's cargo hold.
Tteel Kkak let pheromones of disappointment waft into the air, strong
enough to overcome even the acrid burning smells. Unless that cage had
been immensely strong indeed, this precious special cargo, whatever it
was, had certainly been killed in the crash.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, though, he heard squeals of
terror and pain--and a rumbling growl from within the wreck, basso and
bone-jarring, deep enough to make the remnants of the ship vibrate.
Over half the Jawas wisely bolted through the opening in the hull,
fleeing back to the safety of the sandcrawler; but Tteel Kkak was pilot
and clan representative, and he was responsible for salvage. Though it
seemed the smartest thing to do, he could not simply run from a loud,
scary sound. He wanted to find out what this thing was. The "special
cargo" might be valuable, after all.
He grabbed the arm of his young assistant, who sent up an unpleasant
aroma of dark, ice-metal terror. As they charged down the sloping
corridors, they were nearly bowled over by seven shrieking, retreating
Jawas who squealed an incomprehensible mixture of words and an
impossible-tread scent that conveyed nothing more than nauseating fear.
Tteel Kkak saw long streaks of blood along the corridor, huge
red-smeared footprints. The lights had burned out farther down the
corridor, and the ship still clicked and settled as the fires cooled and
the desert sun baked the outside. The loud, reverberating growl came
again.
Tteel Kkak's young assistant tore away from his grip and joined the
others running out of the ship. Alone now, Tteel Kkak proceeded slowly,
cautiously. Chewed bones lay on the floor, as if something had stripped
the flesh with scimitar fangs and discarded the leftovers like white
sticks.
Ahead, a doorway to the lower cargo hold gaped like a skull's empty
eyesocket. Outwardly bent bars crisscrossed the opening. The door had
been ripped from its hinges--but not in the last few moments and not in
the crash, as far as he could tell. This had happened some time
earlier.
Within the shadows, something enormous moved, growled, lashed out.
As far as Tteel Kkak could tell, the thing had broken out of its cage as
the ship approached Tatooine and had gone back to its lair to finish
devouring the rest of the crew. But when the unmanned ship had crashed,
the thick walls had crumpled inward, trapping the thing in the same cage
that had protected it from death in the impact.
Drawn by a deadly curiosity even greater than his fear, Tteel Kkak crept
closer. He could smell the thing now: a thick, moist scent of violence
and rotting meat.
He saw the torn shreds of several Jawa cloaks. He sniffed the air,
smelled sour Jawa blood.
He hesitated one step away from the opening, when suddenly a wide,
many-clawed hand larger than Tteel Kkak's entire body swept out in a
rapid arc like a branched fork of lightning during sandwhirl season.
Tteel Kkak stumbled backward and fell flat on his back. The monstrous
clawed hand, the only part of the creature that could reach through the
opening, swept across the air, seeming to tear space itself. Claws
struck the corridor walls, skreeking along the wall plates and leaving
parallel white gashes.
Before the monster could slash again, Tteel Kkak leaped to his feet and
scuttled up the sloping corridor to the opening in the bridge
compartment. Before he had gotten halfway there, though, his mind began
to reassess the situation, wondering how he could still get any profit
from this wreck.
He knew only one being who might appropriately enjoy this hideous,
dangerous creature: one who lived on the other side of the Dune Sea, in
an ancient, brooding citadel that had stood for centuries.
Tteel Kkak would have to forfeit most of the salvage materials, but he
did not want to deal with this monster.
He hoped he could talkJabba the Hutt into paying him a large finder's
fee, at least.
The Care and Feeding of a Rancor
Malakili, professional monster trainer and beast handler, found himself
unceremoniously transferred from the Circus Horrificus--a traveling show
of alien monstrosities that wandered from system to system, aweing and
frightening crowds of spectators. "Transferred" was the word imprinted
on his contract file, but the truth was that Malakili had been purchased
outright like a slave and then hustled off to this unpleasant scab of a
desert planet.
As the Tatooine suns broiled down, Malakili already missed the dozens of
bloodthirsty alien creatures he had tended for years. No one else
understood exactly what he did. No one else knew how to tend the touchy
and often excitable beasts on display. The circus performances would no
doubt get very bloody as inexperienced handlers tried to do those things
for which Malakili had become famous. The Circus Horrificus would fall
on hard times without his services.
B
ut as he disembarked from the private land-speeder outside the looming
spires of a citadel high on the cliffs, Malakili began to grasp the
importance and the power of this being called Jabba the Hutt.
The rock walls of the palace thrummed in the baking heat of double suns.
At the base of one of the spires a spiked portcullis clattered upward,
and two humanoid creatures stepped out of the shadows. One was clad in
flowing black robes that accentuated the paleness of his pasty skin,
bright eyes, and fanged mouth. A pair of long, thick tentacles hung
from the back of the creature's head, one wrapped around his neck like a
garrote: a Twi'lek, Malakili noted, one of the heartless creatures from
the harsh planet Ryloth, who had a reputation for shifting sides as
rapidly as a breeze shifted in the desert.
Beside the Twi'lek stood a scarred, grizzle-faced human, a Corellian
from the looks of him, whose face was puckered with either pockmarks
from a disease or the long-healed scar from a vicious blaster burn. The
Corellian's hair was black except for a shock of pure white that